


A Touch Of Color

by beltsquid



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltsquid/pseuds/beltsquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ovelia leads a colorless, monastic life.  But meeting Alma Beoulve cracks open a window to a more colorful world beyond those walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch Of Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsDragon/gifts).



Grey.

Grey stone bricks hewn together with grey cement formed grey walls around a grey floor, upon which sat grey furniture. Much of the monastery was made of stone, for it was a fortress as much as it was anything else. God, they said, would keep her safe, as would the walls. But she must make her spirit as staid and unmoving as the stone, for God favors the virtuous.

“Truly, is it for peace that I must endure this colorless existence?” she whispered aloud, breaking the silence of her prayer. As tiny as her voice was, it still sounded like the ringing of a klaxon in the emptiness of the chapel, and she felt shame. Dropping her folded hands to her lap, Ovelia turned her head toward the windows, and found that in the cold heart of winter even the skies were grey. It was only through windows that she ever got a glimpse of the outside world—the blue of the sky, fading into purples and pinks in the evenings, dotted by stars at night. Sometimes she got splashes of green from the trees. Sometimes she caught the golden-yellow of wheat fields in the distance. But for the most part, her life was marked by the grey of the monastery walls, broken only by the blood-red décor on the altars and of her own mantle. A striking and imposing combination to be sure, but even the most vivid displays grow dull after a time.

And walking in these halls, speaking as little as she did, surrounded only by priests and royal guards, she began to ponder at times if she were really living at all, but rather some sort of ghost. What meaning did she have, locked away and unseen? It was for the good of the kingdom, for the sake of Ivalice and its people, but could peace really be accomplished by her mere isolation? What good could she do for her people if she had no contact, no influence, on life outside these walls? She must have some value, some purpose, as she had grimly realized that if she were truly worthless she'd have been executed by now.

“Or perhaps 'tis just that my thoughts which turn dark,” she said, piercing the silence once more by speaking to herself. “'Tis a light enough burden, is it not? The loneliness of one girl in exchange for the peace of a kingdom?”

She felt another pang of guilt at speaking that aloud. Were a priest around, he would surely remind her that God is always with her, and claiming loneliness is a selfish insult to his presence. But her thoughts immediately took a rebellious turn, for surely if people were meant to be lonesome creatures, then they would not naturally seek companionship. Was it truly a sin to wish to know what green fields would feel like under her feet, to know the heat of the sun in the open air, and to share all that with a companion? Was it so selfish to want to be heard when her words were spoken? Or was she meant to have audience with bricks forever? Her hands unfolded over her skirts, taking them by handfuls and twisting them in muted frustration.

That she could only permit herself to scream, that the world might know her frustration.

Behind her, the heavy wooden door to the chapel opened, the old iron hinges groaning like old lions as it went. Ovelia tensed, momentarily unsure as to whether she should look to see who was joining her or if she were better off appearing to be in prayer. That is, after all, what she should have been doing in that moment—and who would be joining her here but a priest at this hour? She hastily got to her knees, bowed her head, and folded her hands beneath her chin. The door groaned again and shut with a loud thump.

“Oh,” said a voice. “I'd thought this chapel empty at this hour.”  
Ovelia turned her head and saw that it was not a priest but a young woman. Her face was flushed, and by the way she spoke, drawing heavy, halting breaths between her words, she must have been on the run from something. Officially, the chapel was “empty” at the hours Ovelia took prayer. Her schedule was carefully masked in order to stave off assassination attempts: she prayed at odd hours in empty chapels, ate alone, separate from the other cloistered girls, tutored in private with trusted priests. 

“'Tis not so,” Ovelia replied, the words feeling awkward as they left her mouth. “I have been here for some time.”

“I've not seen you before,” the girl said, her head tilting to the side with an inquiring sort of expression. She was of the same age as Ovelia, wore yellows and pinks, her hair gathered back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her boots were flecked with mud.

“I've been here for some time,” Ovelia repeated, and bowed her head to return to her prayers.

“Oh,” the girl whispered. “Are you her? The princess? There are rumors—”

“I am she,” Ovelia said, her voice curt. In truth she had no idea what to do. It would be wisest to send the girl on her way. But had she not been begging God for a companion not a minute before? How silly it was to spend one's life praying and then not to know what to do with an answered prayer. 

The girl cleared her throat and then curtsied deeply, spreading her skirts along the floor. Ovelia noticed that they were hemmed with dirt.

Against all reason, it filled her heart with joy.

“'Tis an honor to meet your majesty,” said the girl, a small waver in her voice. “I am truly sorry for disturbing her majesty's prayer.”

“Truly, I am not disturbed,” Ovelia said. “Come. You may pray with me, if you wish.” Her heart thumped loudly against her chest. This was all highly irregular. She never conversed for long with anyone, much less strangers.

“If it would please her majesty,” the girl replied.

“It would,” said Ovelia, and for once in a lifetime of empty formal gestures, it was true.

The girl nodded meekly, her cheeks still flushed, and made her way to get to her knees beside her. They were silent for a time, necks bent, hands folded together, kneeling in the grey box. But boldness grew in Ovelia, and she soon could not help but question the other girl.

“What were you running from? Were you in trouble?” she asked.

“Nearly,” she replied, stifling back a laugh. “I snuck out to see the snow that fell last night, but I was heard.”

“Snow? Is it very thick?” 

“Barely dust on the ground,” said the girl. “The grass is still as green as ever and still peeking out of it.”

“That sounds lovely,” Ovelia said, smiling at the thought of the green grass dusted with powdery snow, like a sort of baker's confection.

“Mm. It reminded me of home. I confess I got a bit carried away in that thought and that is how I very nearly got caught.” The girl reached into her sleeve and withdrew a single blade of grass. “My father taught us to make whistles from blades of grass,” she explained. “When I try it, I am reminded of my father and brothers.”

“Do you miss them often?” Now that she said it, she realized that she'd never been close enough to any of her relations to miss them in particular.

“Very much so. Had I been born a man, I would be riding with them right now, not cloistered in this place.” She brought a hand over her mouth and took a sharp breath, quickly adding: “My apologies. That was … overly forward. You must think it strange.”

“Wishing for another life? Not at all,” Ovelia replied. The girl nodded, and they fell back into silence. “Your grass whistle,” Ovelia said, after a time. “Would you play it for me?”

The girl gave her a confused look and said “If it would please.” After a nod from Ovelia, she brought it to her lips. She took a breath and blew, a high pitched squeal coming from the grass. Calling it a whistle was a generous description.

Ovelia laughed.

“It is silly, is it not?” The girl laughed as well.

“May I have your name?”

“Oh yes, of course. It's Beoulve. Alma Beoulve.”

“It has been most pleasing to meet you, Alma,” said Ovelia. “Perhaps you could show me that trick again, when the thaw comes?”

Alma nodded. “I shall.”

Ovelia smiled, folded her hands again, and prayed for green things. Beside her, Alma did the same.


End file.
